You were eight years old.

Her name was Barbara. She was blonde with bright blue eyes and curiosity that would have separated a cat from all nine of his lives. She called you Ken and insisted you call her Barbie and determined that you were to be the best of friends forever about thirty seconds after you met.

You were sitting in an orange plastic chair with a fistful of crayons when her daddy came in. There was a twist to his face and a softness in his voice that didn't actually soften anything. You're not sure why he bothered to try.

Her hands were sticky and she smelled like peanut butter as you stood together watching the movers load boxes into a van, the weight of them pressing on you even from across the lawn.

Forever, it turns out, lasted less than a year.

You've hated that word ever since.

"Don't, Deeks."

"Kens -"

"Just - just don't, okay?"

He shoves his hands into his pockets and nods once. "Okay."

After Barbie, there was Tanya, Anna and Joe. Then Stephanie and Erin. Claire. Maria.

As the daughter of a marine, you learned at a very young age that people come and people go.

Houses come and houses go.

Home, they tell you. Home is the only thing that stays. Home is where the heart is; home is where you hang your hat.

Home, you knew even then, is nothing but a load of crap.

He doesn't talk again, and you're both thankful and annoyed. He usually knows when to push and when not to, while others typically stick with not pushing at all. But lately it seems like he takes all your words at face value.

Maybe he's hoping you've started telling him the truth.

Maybe he's just given up.

Each loss is another brick in the wall you've been constructing since the first time you heard your daddy say, "I'm sorry, baby girl, but there's a price to be paid for saving the world."

It didn't make sense then. It doesn't make sense now. It's unfair and illogical and a dozen other things - but mostly, it's just reality.

It's you who breaks the silence.

"Sit down," you practically growl at him.

He looks at you, brow furrowed, like he didn't even hear. He's leaning, both shoulders pressed against the wall, hands still fisted in his pockets. He looks tired, defeated.

You dig your nails into the palm of your hand and remind yourself that you're not the only one who's suffered. You're not the only one who's lost.

"Sit down," you repeat, gentler this time, and you nod toward the chair beside you.

He does, exhaling as he falls into the vacant seat, its four metal legs squeaking under his weight. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, okay."

Technically, you walked out on your mom, but as far as you're concerned she's the one who did the leaving.

Some man from Boston took her away, and the fact that she tried to take you with her doesn't change a thing. You sure as hell weren't going to leave your daddy. Not for some stranger, not for your mother, not for the world. And the fact that she would? That she thought you would? It never made an ounce of sense.

When you slipped out of the rest-stop bathroom in Mesquite, you didn't look back. You brushed the dirt from your fingers and tugged your shirt over the long, red scratches the windowsill left on the soft flesh of your hips. You took a deep breath, held your head high, made a fresh batch of mortar, and laid a few more bricks.

Callen approaches, eyes red, gaze hard. He's got two cups of coffee in his hands.

He pauses just a few feet from you, like he just came upon a red light and is waiting to start again.

He doesn't.

"You thirsty?" Deeks asks, only the vaguest hint of humor in his tone. You're surprised he managed to muster that much.

"Hmm?" Callen asks, still idling in place.

Deeks nods to the cups in Callen's hands. "Two coffees."

"Oh. Yeah." He looks down at them like they're puzzles he just can't quite solve. "I got them for," he looks up, his eyes bouncing between the two of you, "for you guys. For me. For me and you guys." He lifts his shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug. "I guess I didn't have enough hands."

Deeks stands and relieves Callen of one of the cups. "There's a joke to be made there, but I'm guessing it's not going to land."

He hands the coffee to you and you take it without thought. The warmth immediately seeps into your palms.

Deeks returns to his chair. "I'm not thirsty, anyway."

That wall of yours probably would have worked, would have stood the test of time had you not neglected the most important step. But you were too busy fortifying, too focused on calculating the perfect height and width.

When those two men showed up at your door, faces twisted into identical pictures of grief and guilt, the whole damn thing came crashing down.

As you stood in dew-covered grass, toes curled in shiny shoes, you didn't even hear the dirge. The only sound that echoed across that crisp December air was your wall crumbling, brick by brick. It was shattering from the inside and you realized, as you lay there covered in dust and debris, that you forgot to clear your heart out first.

You'd built the wall around him, which completely defeated the purpose.

Sam stalks up, clothes rumpled and soft, a sharp contrast to the hard, angry set of his face. He looks like he needs to punch something before his fists start swinging, their pent-up energy unable to be contained a moment longer.

Nell's hand touches his elbow and slides down his forearm. Her small fingers wrap gently around Sam's, their tiny force just enough to calm the rage.

He takes a breath that rumbles deep down in his chest.

No one says anything.

There's nothing to say.

There was nobody left to check for when you began construction again. Nobody hiding under the bed, in the closet - no one tucked safely inside.

No people, no house. No home.

It was a lonely heart, a tattered heart, but it was all you had and you protected it just the same.

The clock on the wall across from you ticks incessantly, a constant reminder of the passage of time, of another minute gone.

Gone, you snort to yourself. Of course. Time's just like everything else.

Deeks meets your gaze with a frown and you shake your head.

You wonder when you started looking at life as a collection of things just waiting to leave you behind.

Apparently, the ghost of your father still echoed in that traitorous heart of yours because Jack - the tall, dark, handsome marine with a dimpled chin and charisma for days - managed to slip right in.

Seven years of work and he blew through your defenses without even lifting a finger. He was Jack, he was different, he was just the right shape to fill in those empty pieces. Just like your daddy.

And, of course, just like your daddy, he caused the most destruction.

You can still smell the pine needles, feel the chilled hardwood beneath your feet. To this day when you taste gingerbread your heart constricts painfully and you wish for the new year.

Eric returns from the nurse's station, the single shake of his head all the answer you need, but not all he gives you.

"They don't know," he says, voice soft, that same soft you've heard too many times. The hardest sound of all. "Not yet."

You started to feel like the first two little pigs - constantly trying to better your defenses, but always getting blown apart.

This time, you knew, this time would be the charm.

Dom. Mike. The blows kept coming, but you kept building. The wall grew higher and higher until you couldn't see over the edge - until you finally felt safe.

There was no way to burrow in; there were no holes in your design. Your construction had never been better and your heart had never been more secure.

Nell hauls a few chairs from down the hall one by one, their bulky shapes dwarfing her tiny frame.

As she drags Callen into a seat, it doesn't escape your notice that despite your previous assumption that she was the most vulnerable, she's truly the strongest one here.

When you woke up that morning two months ago, toes twisted in the soft, cotton sheets of his bed, your heart was echoing so loudly in your ears that the sound of the shower running in the next room barely even registered.

Your hand came frantically to your chest, flapping like a fish before pressing firmly against it as if to stop a gushing wound. As you did your best to stem the bleeding, you realized with horror that your wall was gone.

The only resistance you felt against your palms was the jagged edges of a few remaining bricks. You couldn't breathe, you couldn't think.

And so you didn't. You just acted.

You slipped out of his bed and back to your fortress to try and rebuild your defenses.

A man approaches, his footsteps softened by the tread of his comfortable shoes. A white jacket covers an unremarkable set of blue hospital scrubs. His eyes scan the hallway where you've gathered, taking in the group a moment before speaking.

When he clears his throat it rattles you down to your bones. "Ms. Lange?"

Nell's the only one strong enough to meet his gaze.

"That's us."

The thing about Deeks is that, unlike Jack, he didn't just find a way in for himself. He found a way to dismantle the whole operation. For every brick you secured, he took off two and you never even noticed the disruption.

So there you were, here you are, vulnerable and exposed and open to anyone. You can't figure out how to defend yourself again, and for the first time in your life you're not sure if it's because you don't know how or if it's because you just don't want to. There aren't enough bricks left to block out all these people.

Or maybe you just can't find it in yourself to really try.

Because instead of surrounding your heart with hardened clay and sand, you've unwittingly surrounded it with people. Sam and Callen, Nell, Eric - you've even let your mom back in. And Deeks. God, Deeks.

He's there, in the center of it all with that ridiculous grin on his face, so proud of himself. So happy. He's covered with debris and utterly convinced he's done something worthy of praise.

And suddenly you're eight-years-old again, peanut butter smeared on the corners of your mouth and thinking about sunshine and rainbows and forever.

"She'll make a full recovery," the doctor says, and your vision blurs with tears and relief. "It'll be slow, it'll be hard, but she'll be okay."

There's noise that follows, people talking, someone crying, but the only thing you're aware of is the beating of your heart and the ache that still remains.

"She'll be okay," you whisper and you realize that somewhere along the way you reached for Deeks' hand. It's gripped firmly in yours, the calloused fingers familiar and comforting and steadying. "She'll be okay."

She blinks you into focus. "Miss Blye?"

"Hetty."

"Don't just sit there and blubber, my dear." Her fingers lift in the ghost of a gesture. "Hand me my Jello."

You laugh a watery laugh and reach for the small plastic cup, peeling back the foil lid before setting it on the tray beside her.

Forever, you realize, isn't the most important word.

You hand her the white plastic spoon and smile.

Deeks opens his door, rumpled and groggy, his tangled hair falling haphazardly across his face.

"Kensi?" he asks, voice rough as sandpaper but still the most soothing sound you've heard. "It's four in the morning."

"I know."

He doesn't hesitate a moment before stepping aside and letting you in. Because Deeks - Deeks has always known what you took your entire life to realize.

The most important word is now.